


Edge of the World

by Natterina



Series: Valhalla [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sad Ending, Tags are a spoiler in itself I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natterina/pseuds/Natterina
Summary: Eivor could almost be convinced that the stranger who walks into Ravensthorpe is Freyja herself, come to take her away for the fields of Folkvangr.The truth, as it turns out, is not that far off.
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Series: Valhalla [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204085
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	Edge of the World

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Maddening Love, however you don't need to have read that one through to get this: only backstory really is that Eivor romanced Randvi and they are together/have been together a long time by this, but it's not relevant plot-wise.

For the first time in years, something prompts Eivor to stand in the entryway to her longhouse and simply watch her people milling about in the afternoon sun.

Ravensthorpe has changed over the years, picked itself up and moved itself further north on more than one occasion. Eivor goes with it, a Jarlskona with Randvi by her side, and together they hold in place the village, if not the location.

The current Ravensthorpe is settled on the bank of one of the rivers far to the north of Jorvik, its second relocation, by agreement with one of the sons of Halfdan Ragnarsson. They had built it quickly and swiftly, their longboats already carrying as many supplies as they could take before they left, far from the increasingly intolerant armies of the south. The north is all that remains out of the hands of the Anglo-Saxons, but the fight for control is not over yet.

For Eivor, however, it approaches.

Time has not been as kind to Eivor as it has to Randvi, whose honey-red hair grows greyer with each night it fans across their pillows. Eivor remembers finding the first grey hair, so many years ago, as nimble fingers had carded through her hair and found a lone strand of silver. Randvi had bemoaned Eivor’s fairer colouring, the blonde so bright that grey would never show easily.

Eivor loves it, though. Loves _her_ , falling into bed with her most nights like they did thirty years earlier, though it takes them longer to get out of it the next morning. Randvi is everything to her, the one constant throughout the years, the _only_ person Eivor has ever loved, who welcomed her home after every raid, every excursion. Eivor knows she would not be who she is without Randvi.

And she knows, as hard as it is to admit it, that Randvi cannot follow her to the end.

* * *

The stranger enters Ravensthorpe at an hour too early to be spotted by most of its residents, but late enough that the warriors have enough time to rouse their Jarlskona before they ever make it up to the longhouse.

Eivor is sitting on the throne when the stranger enters, the hood on their cloak too far forward in this light to make out any features until they’re nearly within reach.

“I ask that you remove your hood inside my halls.” Eivor knows her voice is not as strong as it used to be, but she can still sound intimidating if she needs to. The underlying threat is audible, Eivor’s fingers lazily dancing across the blade of the sword she has laid across her knees.

To her surprise, the stranger obeys.

And Eivor thanks her luck that she is already seated.

The woman is quite possibly the most beautiful person Eivor has ever seen, taller than she and far less lean than Eivor was in her prime. Although she is dressed far more warmly than is needed given the balmy autumn, it is easy to see that even with all the layers this woman is built like the strongest of warriors, broad shouldered and almost goddess-like in the way she stands before Eivor as though she fears absolutely nothing.

With the removal of her cloak it is easy to see the gigantic axe that is strapped to her back, gleaming gold in colour with a pair of elaborate wings forming the blade. One wing is larger than the other to form the bulk of the blade, and winding up the handle is an expertly-crafted pair of snakes. Even from her place on the throne, Eivor can see the intricate details that has gone into the crafting, each scale glittering in the firelight and giving the snakes the effect of moving around the axe, every feather on the wing seeming to beat. Gunnar, if he were still alive, would likely kill to even glance at it.

All this alone would convince Eivor of the rarity of the woman, but even without it all she _still_ is beautiful. She reminds Eivor of those statues in Octavian’s little museum, the ones he had said were copies of an even older civilisation’s statues, wide-eyed with a strong jaw. Her skin is darkened by a sun much harsher than the one they live under, and her dark hair is tied off in a manner not unlike Randvi’s, but her features are sharp and her eyes are piercing as they stare down at her. There is also a heavy weight of maturity in those eyes, and despite her youth Eivor can only truly describe them as _old_.

Briefly, Eivor wonders if this is Freyja, come down from Folkvangr herself.

“You look as though you have travelled far, stranger. I offer you a feast from my table and a place by my hearth for the night, if you have need of it.”

Best to be as hospitable as possible, she thinks, rather than risk pissing off someone she is not convinced is entirely human. The woman looks surprised at this, though Eivor sees her eyes flicker knowingly around the room, taking note of each heavily armed warrior.

“I thank you, Jarlskona Eivor.” Though her words are clearly spoken very carefully, as if following along a script, it is not that which takes Eivor’s attention. The accent is completely new to her, curling around the woman’s words in a manner that almost reminds her of Basim. The accents are not the same, but the lilt of hers has that same unfamiliarity of English words that Basim had, and she wonders if they learned the language in a similar country, far away from this little island.

Eivor leans forward.

“You know me, stranger, but I do not know you. I would have you introduce yourself. Tell me why you are here.”

The woman glances around again, and when she looks back up at Eivor there is a small tilt to the corner of her mouth, the briefest of knowing smiles.

“You know why I am here.”

It is the oddest thing, really. Something _shifts_ inside her, heavy and long locked away, presses against her lungs almost as though she is breathless. It is not an unfamiliar feeling, and Eivor had last felt it _long_ ago, facing down a mossy wall covered in unknown symbols with a golden orb in her hand.

She had been so certain then that placing the artefact into the slot in the wall was _not_ the right thing to do, knew it so well that the thought of doing otherwise made her bones ache. This is the same, and the moment those words leave the woman’s mouth Eivor _knows_ exactly why she is here in Ravensthorpe.

Randvi watches the exchange with sharp eyes, a frown twisting at her lips when Eivor shifts on the throne, leaning forward with something painfully similar to resignation in the line of her shoulders.

“So soon.”

The woman gives a slow nod, her eyes remaining on Eivor.

“You feel it in yourself. You know I cannot leave without you.”

And Eivor does feel it. She is not long for this world, and there has been a pull back to Vinland since long before this strange _goddess_ turned up in her halls. Next to her, Randvi’s expression falls, pain evident on her face.

“How long?”

“I will leave tomorrow morning.”

It is not their way, but Eivor has little choice but to go with her. There will be no celebration for her departure, no expectation that she will return. Sigurd’s son will take her place as he has been trained to, and that will be that. Here one day, gone the next.

“Organise a feast for tonight. But don’t tell them, let them think we are merely celebrating this stranger.” Randvi reluctantly leaves to check their stores can survive a feast, but not before she reaches out with her hand and squeezes Eivor’s forearm harder than is really necessary. It conveys the meaning well enough, a promise that they will be having a _talk_ about this later.

"And you, stranger?" Eivor asks, tilting her head in curiosity. "Might I have your name, if you plan to steal me away from my home?"

The small smile on the woman’s lips is almost one of amusement, an odd expression for one who appears so serious.

“If I am to stay, you can call me Kassandra.”

* * *

The feast is rowdier than most gatherings Kassandra has attended, though she is content to remain quietly at the main table. She is altogether a far quieter woman than she was in her youth, though she concedes that perhaps if she was still in Greece she would be a livelier participant. The world is becoming a far more restrictive place to navigate, and she has found solitude a moreconstant companion than humanity.

At first, the passage of years had continued as they always had, and friendships had felt as though they lasted an age. But now, as the centuries move ever onwards, Kassandra has found that friendships of decades pass like the blink of an eye, and those who she attaches herself to do not seem to live as long as they used to. It has dulled her over time, kept her to herself even when she has not needed to be alone. Here, in this hall full of laughter and rowdiness, she feels a little bit of the cold receding from her bones.

At the sight of Eivor at the centre of the table, Randvi at her side, tendrils of something that feels a lot like sadness begins to take root.

* * *

“Do you have everything ready?”

Kassandra stands near the longship, the few items she brought with her already in the boat. The staff of Hermes Trismegistus has changed its form, now an elaborate spear that it is easier to sit with when it is strapped onto her armour. Eivor notices the tip, with the golden wings and the twin snakes winding their way up the socket, and furrows her brows.

Kassandra’s response is an enigmatic smile that betrays nothing, and the woman in question almost feels like she is a young mercenary again.

“I merely need to say my goodbyes to Randvi.” Eivor throws a knapsack into the longship with nary a care, her own axe already laid across several seats.

“You are doing no such thing.” Randvi startles them both, slipping between them and looking down at the ship to take a quick headcount of the rowers. They will be taken only as far as the coast, where a boat of Kassandra’s own awaits to row them out to her ship.

“Randvi.” Eivor starts, hand reaching out to take Randvi’s own and turn her so that she is facing her. “It is time for me to leave.”

“I am not telling you that you cannot leave, Eivor. But I _am_ going with you.”

“It is impossible, Randvi. You’ll not be able to return to Ravensthorpe.” Eivor’s words evoke something fierce in Randvi, who steps closer to Eivor and tightens her own grip on Eivor’s hand.

“If you think I will spend my days sitting in Ravensthorpe whilst you go to-“ Randvi chokes on her words, an uncharacteristic moment of grief stopping her from voicing them. She is silent for a moment, eyes cast towards the river, but when she looks back at Eivor her eyes are hard and her grip is nearly bruising. “You left me here once before for a journey to Vinland. Never again. I am coming with you.”

Kassandra clears her throat, knowing an interjection is necessary.

“I will bring Randvi back to Ravensthorpe.”

Eivor stares at her, this stranger with too much knowledge and a weariness that speaks of too many years lived, and wonders if her trust may be misplaced. She is still half-convinced this woman is Freja in a human guise. But trust her she does, and Eivor nods with a sigh.

“Then it is settled, I can return here once you are…done.” She strains the final word out, turning her face away from both Eivor and Kassandra and swiftly stepping into the longship with more ease than Eivor ever has.

Eivor’s heart aches with grief at what Randvi is sure to be going through, and she knows her feelings over this are nowhere near as tumultuous as Randvi’s. They had talked long into the night, bickering and arguing before they had directed their energy to more loving pursuits, but sex that is tinged with grief is a guarantee of a restless night.

She turns to look out at the village, smaller than the original Ravensthorpe and yet so full of life that it pains her to leave it. _She_ built this Ravensthorpe as surely as she had built the first one, and it will always be a site that proudly claims her as its founder, but the times ahead are uncertain and leaving it feels almost like abandonment.

Arne Sigurdsson is well equipped to take over, trained as rigorously as he has been by both Randvi and Eivor, and he is sure to be well advised by the former when she returns from Vinland. But still, she has been the Ravensthorpe Jarlskona for decades now, and there is a wistfulness in this parting she cannot help but feel. Her home, her people, she commits it all to her memory. They will not know until Randvi returns, but it is better this way.

With one last look at the longhouse, Eivor turns to the longship and lowers herself in.

* * *

The waves do not rock this boat as they would a longship, and the journey so far is much smoother than it was the first time Eivor travelled this far west. Randvi sits close enough to her that the warmth from the other woman seeps through Eivor’s bones, a comforting heat that almost lulls her to sleep alongside the movement of the ship.

The design of the ship is strange to her, though likely Sigurd would have found some similarity amongst the ones he travelled on during his time in the east. Kassandra claims it is of Greek design, but Eivor had noticed Randvi’s frown when that fact was stated. So, Eivor decides to ask.

“How old is this ship? I have never seen its like.” The cold sea air catches in her chest, but Eivor forces down the oncoming cough as Kassandra rests her forearms on the wheel and looks across at her.

“Just a little bit older than I.” There is a wry smirk to her lips that speaks of an inside joke that no one is left alive to enjoy. “Though it’s not _really_ the same ship I started with, it has been repaired so many times.”

“And how old would you be?” Eivor is honestly curious, this woman who looks so _young_ , though who is probably older than she was when she became Jarlskona of the Raven Clan. There is something about her that doesn’t seem right, and though Eivor is generally able to ignore the niggling feeling it has been sending Randvi up the wall with mistrust.

Kassandra looks as though she debates lying, before she cocks her head to the side and speaks. “About thirteen-hundred years. Give or take a decade or two.”

Eivor releases a breath as Randvi turns sharply to look at Kassandra, brows furrowed.

“Impossible.”

But Eivor disagrees with her love, having known from the first moment that there was something old and wise and _weary_ about this woman. Kassandra barks out a laugh, but there is something dark and bitter within it.

“Some days I wish it was.”

“Who _are_ you?” Randvi’s voice is sharp enough that it borders on rude. Eivor thinks it a bit unnecessary, seeing as the woman has been happy enough to answer their questions so far.

Up at the wheel Kassandra motions for one of her men to take over, stepping aside and slowly making her way down the steps until she is on the deck with them. She does not sit down, instead leans against the side of the ship and crosses her arms loosely over her chest as she casts her gaze out over the ocean. Eivor watches her carefully, and notices the moment when Kassandra flicks her eyes up and notices the raven flying high above the sails.

“I _was_ Kassandra of Sparta, the Eagle Bearer. But it has been a very long time since I lost Ikaros, and Sparta is no longer the Sparta that made me.” She gives a small smile when she looks back up at the raven, Eivor’s fourth such companion. Eivor wonders if Kassandra's relationship with her eagle had been similar to her own with her ravens, as unlikely as that seems to be.

“And now?” Randvi has edged forward, curiosity winning out over her mistrust.

“I am a very old woman. I am the Keeper of the Staff of Hermes, and it keeps me alive. But I have been doing this for a long time, and it doesn’t often tell me what to do.” There is a frown on Kassandra’s lips at that statement, and Eivor inclines her head in understanding.

“And it led you to me.”

Kassandra nods.

“It led me to you.”

“How did you come to possess the staff?” Eivor cannot comprehend how such a vicious weapon has such fluidity, the ability to change its shape seemingly at Kassandra’s will. Nor can she understand how it grants Kassandra long life and youth.

“You won’t believe the story if I told you.” Kassandra starts, but at Eivor’s expression she sighs. “I’m going to sound crazy, but you asked.”

It does sound crazy, almost completely unbelievable, and Eivor may very well not have believed it had she not encountered something similar in Norway, all those decades ago.

“I know the illusions of which you speak. I encountered the same thing, many years ago.” She turns on her seat, pulling down at the back of her cloak to show Kassandra three large circular scars at the base of her skull. “The machine that makes you see such illusions, it pierces you at the spine and your skull.”

Kassandra looks… disgusted, really.

“What? Fuck, I walked through a _door_ into the rooms which held them.”

And so, Eivor tells her own tale.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?” There is sympathy hidden within the loud uncertainty of Kassandra’s words, her long fingers wrapped tightly around the axe as she leans on it, the hilt pushing down into the soil.

Eivor swallows, her posture similar to Kassandra’s but with much more weight on her axe. It is easy enough to nod in agreement, though something almost akin to fear begins to seep its way through her heart. Randvi starts, alarmed, reaching a hand out to grab at Eivor’s wrist.

“You’ll be slaughtered.”

Eivor grits her teeth, turning to look at her.

“I will not lie in my bed shivering beneath my furs, waiting for death to claim me, Randvi.”

For a moment Eivor thinks that Randvi might protest, but understanding passes between them a moment before Randvi steps forward, pressing one last kiss to Eivor’s lips. It is soft, so unlike the harsh kisses of goodbye that Eivor has received over the years, and far too fleeting considering the weight behind it.

“I love you.”

Eivor smiles.

“And I love you, Randvi.” There is little more to say after that, no platitudes or hopes of meeting again in Valhalla or Folkvangr; there is no glorious death in battle in Randvi’s future. This is where they part now, forever. Eivor takes Randvi’s hands in her own, pressing a firmer kiss against her curled fingers before she lets go.

Randvi’s voice catches in her throat as Eivor pulls away, lifting her axe and holding it steadily.

There is a strange sense of familiarity to all of this, Eivor keenly remembering being on the other side of this scenario as a young warrior fighting the best of Ragnar’s men, who like her now had needed a _good_ fight against a warrior willing to fight them properly.

Valhalla is not for those who make a half-arsed attempt. This is a fight to the death that she must _try_ to win, though she is all too aware that even now she is older than most of those honoured drengr all those years ago.

Eivor had also had the advantage in those fights of having something…else within her, the part that almost seemed to hear Odin whispering in her ears. Kassandra is even more than that, and in this warmer climate with lighter armour on Eivor can see every line of muscle on her taller frame. This woman is more than human, that much is clear.

No, Eivor thinks with a weary smile, she does not think this will take very long.

Kassandra’s face is unreadable, though she nods slowly at Eivor as she shifts from leaning on her axe to wielding it with ease.

Eivor breaks the quiet by moving first, quicker than she has been in years but no match for the darker haired woman who blocks the blow from her axe as though she were a child with a wooden sword.

She almost wishes she were still a young drengr, hot-blooded and at her strongest: the chance to fight this woman at her full strength would have been an honour in itself, and it may be prideful to think it, but Eivor reckons she could have held this woman off for a few hours.

But she is not young, and Kassandra responds with an upwards swing of her axe that is so brutal it likely would have cleaved her in half had Eivor not stepped backwards in time.

Managing to hold her own is not easy, but Eivor lasts long enough that she begins to feel familiar pains running down her arms and through her knees. The weakness that has taken ahold of her the past year begins to make itself known, and Eivor takes a glancing blow to her thigh in the middle of a coughing fit that leaves blood on her gloves. Each swing of her axe grows weaker, her ability to dodge and block Kassandra’s blows coming slower.

When she coughs up a clot of blood and spits it to the floor, Kassandra spots it and something in her demeanour changes completely. She gives another nod, firmer this time, whilst Eivor can only copy it and prepare for the onslaught of blows.

She realises quickly that Kassandra had absolutely been holding back: the flurry of axe swings that follow are capable of utter carnage. Eivor struggles to catch her breath as she blocks the first, the second, third, fourth…

The fifth one rams straight through her stomach, Eivor’s axe still held above her chest from blocking the fourth blow when Kassandra changes tact and pushes her axe forward, spear-tip first. It goes deep enough that she feels the awful thud of the blade of the axe itself when it stops in her breastbone.

The pain that blooms through her is worse than anything she has ever felt, radiating through her limbs before the iciest cold follows it. Her own axe drops to the ground as Kassandra removes hers from Eivor’s body, but not even the warmth of her own blood soaking her furs is enough to chase away the icy numbness coursing through her.

Randvi catches her before she falls, lowering her down to the ground with a strength she rarely displays. A heavy cloud has descended in her mind, like the fuzziness after a terrible night of drinking. She only distantly feels Randvi pressing her axe into her hand, focusing instead on the blue of her eyes as she hovers over her.

Kassandra has also knelt down next to her, but Eivor keeps her gaze on Randvi as the edges of her vision darkens. Randvi’s smile is so _sad_ that she wants to reach up to reassure her, but her limbs feel so _heavy_ , and Randvi’s hand is keeping her own clasped firmly around her axe.

Her other hand reaches up to Eivor’s own face, gently pulling strands of hair away from her forehead and tucking them behind her ear. Her fingertips are warm, but the sensation is nice, and Eivor tries to focus on it as she struggles to keep her eyes open.

It is so cold, and the bubble of blood that pops at the corner of her lips is equally so. Randvi does not waver, trailing her fingers down Eivor’s jaw and shushing soothingly, and Eivor wonders what on earth she was thinking to leave this woman. She tries to open her mouth to speak, but there is blood in her throat that chokes the words from her.

Randvi shakes her head, leaning forwards to place a kiss on Eivor’s forehead. Her lips are hot against her skin.

“Sleep, love.” And then, quietly enough that even Kassandra would struggle to hear it: “I’ll be alright. You don’t have to stay.” Those words are a lie, for Eivor knows too well the look of a watery smile on her lover’s face.

Eivor has so few regrets in her life, and she does not regret this. Her time has always been coming, looming ever closer as the weakness in her bones grew. But leaving Randvi behind to face the world without her at her side, that she does regret.

The world grows ever colder, a few moments stretched out into a thousand, so cold that Eivor wonders if Hel is what truly awaits her. She focuses on Randvi, her voice and the feel of her hand around Eivor’s own, still clasping that axe in her hands.

_Sleep, love._

And so, she does.

* * *

Kassandra wisely keeps her distance after Eivor leaves this world for Hades.

She has known this grief before, so long ago now that to remember it is as though it happened to someone else. She knows the pain of a loved one murdered at spearpoint, being left alone to bury the remains as though that truly were a fitting end. Kassandra _knows_ the impulse to vomit that burns at the back of the throat, the ache behind eyes that have shed too many tears.

Randvi does not deny the impulse to bring up the contents of her stomach, but she deals with it quickly. She refuses Kassandra’s offer to help with the digging of the grave, and it takes her far longer than it would if she’d taken the help. But Kassandra does not push, and gives her the privacy she needs. The anger and the sadness help to drive the shovel into the ground, and there is no quicker way to accept the reality of death than to create the grave yourself.

She busies herself with hunting, trying not to think too hard on the unfairness of this. A woman condemned to death far from her home, to be buried in a distant land when her own heart had wanted different burial rites, all for her to be forgotten about and lost to time until the Heir of Memories comes along and disturbs her eternal slumber.

Aletheia, who has been quiet for centuries, had been unusually insistent on Kassandra ensuring that Eivor reached Vinland, and had been equally insistent that the woman not be cremated as was usual amongst her people for those of her rank. The reason had been obvious, nearly the same reason as to why Kassandra had been forced to hand over her family’s spear to Herodotus once Kassandra had discovered all there was to know inside Atlantis. Eivor’s life, like her own, will somehow be visible to the Heir of Memories.

Not for the first time, Kassandra wonders what the whole point of this even _is_. She could never have imagined that her role as the Keeper would lengthen her lifespan so much. She has spent centuries now standing on the sidelines, watching history make itself, only intervening when her morals demanded it be so. Pythagoras’ final words had ensured she tried to make sure neither chaos or order won out, and she has taken history into her own hands more than once. Alexandros of Makedon, Spartakos of Thraki, Domitius of Roma, those had been the first times she had intervened and they were certainly not the last.

But _this_ was something else entirely. Men cut down in their prime are not equal to warriors on the cusp of death who have very little chance to stand against her, though by all accounts being slaughtered in the wilderness in a foreign land is apparently the most honourable thing Eivor could have asked for by this point in her life.

No, this feels less like avoiding stagnation or chaos, and more like an active plot. For the first time since inheriting the staff, Kassandra feels like a pawn in someone else’s game. As impossible as it seems, it almost feels as though there is something _personal_ in bringing Eivor so far from home. If Kassandra is to meet the Heir of Memories in Atlantis when the still-unknown time comes, then what is the purpose of forcing Eivor to die in Vinland, where her resting place will be forgotten and her name lost to time? Surely, Kassandra thinks, it is far easier to leave Eivor in Atlantis, or to allow her to be buried in England? 

Perhaps it is because this is the first time since leaving Atlantis that Aletheia had spoken to her, or perhaps it is because this is the first thing she’s been actively _told_ to do, but either way, it unsettles her.

Kassandra sighs, kicking a nearby bush in a half-arsed attempt to make herself feel better. She can do nothing now, and likely would not change her actions even as unsettled as she is. What is she, but the Keeper of the Staff, and really, what can she do?

Everyone dies, she had bitterly learnt that truth long ago, and at least she has been able to send Eivor in a way her people would have deemed suitable.

* * *

There are few things that Randvi will never forget the sight of.

Eivor, the day Randvi had arrived at the Raven Clan to be married to Sigurd, lurking amongst the welcoming party but easily outshining everyone with her rugged beauty. Her face the day she returned from Vinland, tanned and weather-beaten but happy to see Randvi. Her expression the day in the clearing, when she had confessed _love_ to a stunned Randvi, that is perhaps her favourite of the unforgettable memories, followed by the relief and joy in the taciturn woman’s face when Randvi had kissed her. Plenty of moments, from the day they had learned that Sigurd’s son was newly orphaned and became _theirs_ , the day that the first Ravensthorpe had been lost to Aelfred’s soldiers.

Many moments, not all of them pleasant, but she remembers.

But the sight of Eivor in her arms, gasping for breath that will not come, blood flowing inhumanly fast from her body and soaking through Randvi’s trousers, blood in her teeth and popping in saliva-bubbles at the corners of her mouth, that is one that is likely to be seared behind her eyelids for the rest of her days.

Randvi does not expect she will ever get a good night’s sleep again.

Eivor, at least, did not seem to be _aware_ that she was choking on her own blood, regardless of how impossible that seems. Randvi’s assurance she could leave was more to stop the sight of her lover fighting against the throes of death: the begging her to return had come after, before the throwing up of her morning meal and the attack of fear that had come with it.

Digging the grave alone had seemed the only _right_ decision, though Randvi is not so prideful to finish it alone, and by the time the sun begins to set and Kassandra returns from her hunt, she asks the other woman to dig the last few feet. The ground is damp, but Randvi is no longer young and agile, and the contrary part of her would rather let the immortal woman with the strength of a goddess finish digging the final few feet.

It is not a large grave, not adorned with grave goods as it would be were they with their clan. In Ravensthorpe, Eivor may have even been granted the honour of a ship burial. They are not a wealthy clan, but they are prosperous and they know to whom they owe such prosperity, and with their proximity to a river it would only be _right_ that Eivor be honoured as such.

A quiet grave with only her weapons and her armour is a poor send off for a warrior such as Eivor, without even the honour of a cremation. Between her fingers, Randvi fiddles with a beautifully crafted arm ring that glitters in the light of the torch, a raven’s head and a wolf’s head at each end. It is quite possibly her most treasured possession, gifted to her by Eivor only a day or two after Gunnar’s wedding all those years ago.

Indecision holds her for a moment, before she bites her lip against the looming tears and kneels down, reaching into the grave to thread it through one of the belts on Eivor’s armour.

It is not what Eivor deserves, but it is better than nothing at all.

* * *

They leave the next morning, after Randvi has spent her first night wholly alone in decades.

Eivor had left on long expeditions during the course of their relationship, but this is…different. Her first night of _forever_ sleeping alone, her first morning waking in a cold bed. It is a bitterly sad thought to know that her life will now be a constant stream of firsts, the first day since Eivor’s death, the first week, the first month, the first _year_. No longer her first _with_ Eivor, but her first without.

Still, she gets up.

Randvi has never been one to lose her composure easily, stoic almost to a fault when her heart feels fragile, and her calm face is a brittle thing as Kassandra leads the way back to her ship. The woman speaks little to Randvi, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, but she is grateful for the silence. Any questions might break through, and Randvi had exhausted all her tears the moment the last shovel of soil covered Eivor’s face.

The journey home is rough: the little boat that carried them to the beach is barely pushed off the shore before a powerful urge to just _get off_ overtakes her. The cruelty of it, the guilt in her chest at abandoning Eivor’s body in this strange land, all of it bubbles up inside her and it takes all her strength to remain seated, to allow the shore to grow ever further away.

She will never see the grave again, already unable to traipse back through the forest to reach it, never mind actually being able to navigate the way and find it. All Randvi can do is keep her gaze on the beach and the cliffs, burn it into her memory so that she can honour Eivor’s death within her own heart.

Kassandra asks her about it only once, halfway back to England, after a day of the woman bundling up into warmer clothing and muttering angrily under her breath about _northern climates_ and _never leaving Hellas again_. It’s the most she has spoken since being lost in her own thoughts, but she quickly turns her focus on Randvi and has no hesitation in her questions.

“You never tried to get her to stay, in England. Why?” Her expression is curious, though Randvi idly notices that she does not look half as fearsome bundled up in so much fur, not now that she has seen the full bulk and strength of her.

Still, Randvi does not need to search for her answer.

“I know a lingering death when I see one. You gave her what few, if any, in our clan could. It is one thing to claim you can fight an ageing _drengr_ to give them Valhalla, and quite another to slaughter the Jarlskona who has led you since you were in swaddling clothes.” She pauses, looking out over the raging ocean. “My only wish is that it did not have to be so far from home.”

“I’m afraid I had little choice in that.”

Randvi’s smile is grim.

“Few do.”

* * *

Kassandra leaves her a little ways down the river from Ravensthorpe, at Randvi’s own request.

There is much to process, and Randvi feels she needs some time alone before facing the clan. So much has happened, least of all still the impossibility of this woman who has lived so long, appearing on their shores and then leaving just as quickly.

“Will you be fine, going back on your own?” Kassandra sounds awkward, having spent so little time around other humans that saying goodbye to a woman she has spent nearly two months with is stranger than it should be. It has also been more than a thousand years since she last allowed someone close enough that losing them to Hades tumbled her into grief, and so she has little to say in comfort.

“Yes, thank you. I need to… think, on what to tell them.”

Kassandra stands in her little riverboat, hovering as though uncertain of what else to say. She has had plenty of time to think herself, leaning on the wheel of her ship trying to understand what exactly it was about this task that felt so _wrong_. Answers had failed her, however: her next step is to try and find the place in Norway that Eivor had spoken about, that had nearly claimed her and her brother, and which had later called that same brother back to its vaulted halls.

But here and now, she tries to search for words of comfort.

“For what it is worth, I am sorry that it was you.” And she is, truly. She does not regret the killing of Eivor, for she has ended far too many lives thus far to start regretting the act, and she had done so in a way that guaranteed Eivor closure in her own cultural beliefs. Had Eivor been a woman with no family, no one in her life to miss her, Kassandra would be long gone back to Greece with nothing other than a brief sadness at the woman’s fate.

But this, Randvi’s fate, strikes a chord. She knows how it feels to be the one left behind, had felt that pain the day Alexios crossed the Styx, the last of her family to do so.

Randvi only nods her head at Kassandra, a slow acknowledgement of her words. There is little else that either of them can say.

And that…is that. Kassandra leaves her on the riverbank, and Randvi watches until the boat is long out of sight, words trying to form in her brain but failing her nonetheless.

How to tell the clan that their beloved Jarlskona is gone? How to tell Arne Sigurdsson, Eivor’s heir and their nephew, that he is now Jarl? He had been gone on an expedition to the aging Harald of Norway, unable to say his own farewells. He will no doubt be angry, and there is little Randvi can say to justify it all without mentioning Kassandra’s role in this.

Randvi remains on the riverbank for most of the morning, explanations and speeches running through her brain. Perhaps the only explanation is the simplest, that Eivor’s time had come and she had chosen Vinland as the place for her death.

With a sigh that almost sounds older than even her years, Randvi forces herself to turn away from the river and head in the general direction of the clan. It is hard to imagine, now, that Eivor only remains in her memories, that she will never gain new ones. For every new person she meets, none will know Eivor, will know her voice or the sound of her laughter, or the litany of curses in both norse and english that so frequently left her lips. All of it remains in the memories of those who did know her, and they will never have new memories added to them.

So much lost, so much time gone in an instant.

She faces a sadder, lonelier life, and the ending to her own saga is no longer to her satisfaction.


End file.
